


Golden Honey Afternoon

by Terrie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fisting, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:50:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrie/pseuds/Terrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little something for International Fisting Day, October 21st. Shameless porn with a little fluff. Because, apparently, I can't not write fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Honey Afternoon

Stiles knows he’s weird. He doesn't let it bother him. Honestly, he has enough issues with his self image without adding to them. He’s pale, he’s scrawny, clumsy, prone to flailing, socially awkward, flighty and occasionally obsessive. Compared to all that, weird is nothing. 

He does wonder if this is part of his overall weird, or if it counts as its own thing.

He’s face down on the bed, a hand gripping the hair at the base of his skull and pushing him hard against the sheets. His right arm is twisted up behind him, held tight against the small of his back. His left arm is outstretched, trying and failing to get some sort of purchase against the mattress. His legs are stretched wide, pinned in place by knees across the back of them. 

He’s helpless.

He loves it.

Derek is heavier than him, but not that much heavier. It’s not just his weight, but careful application of werewolf strength that holds Stiles in place. Stiles can gain some leverage by pushing his toes against the bed, but all that does is rock them both in place.

The hand on his head is taken away, and he arches his neck to try and follow. It returns momentarily to push him back into position. Derek says nothing, which Stiles thinks is unfair. Sure, he can’t talk, his face is smushed into the mattress, but Derek doesn't need to hear him. He can hear Stiles’ heartbeat and smell his scent. It’s better than any safe word, because there’s no way for what he thinks he should say to override the truth. But Stiles can’t do that. All he hears is his own gasping breath and the occasional creak of the bed. All he smells is the detergent they used on the sheets and their own sweat. 

He whines, high and at the back of his throat, the only sound he can clearly make. A hand runs down his side, blunt nails scraping his skin. He feels Derek’s weight shift as he leans forward. “Shhh. Just remember to keep breathing.”

He wants to remind Derek that that only happened once, but he still can’t speak and when a slick thumb rubs over his hole, he momentarily forgets what he was going to say anyway. Stiles deliberately inhales, exhales and relaxes his muscles. His instinct is to push back against that finger -- Derek has called him greedy more than once -- but his job here is to relax, keep breathing and take whatever Derek offers him. Easier said than done, especially when Derek stops touching him.

He takes the arm held against Stiles’ back and places it on the mattress. Stiles can’t help immediately moving, drawing his arms in to push himself up, but Derek knows him too well. A touch on his shoulder makes Stiles pause. He reaches out and grips the edges of the bed as a reminder to himself.

With Derek’s hands now free, Stiles hears the click-snap of the cap on the lube. His response to the noise has become ingrained. Pavlovian, even. The thought makes Stiles giggle at the contrast between drooling dogs and erections. Derek, long used to this sort of thing, just pushes Stiles harder against the mattress. The weight is steady and soothing.

The fingers that probe probe his ass start out cool, but quickly warm. Derek is careful, going at what Stiles thinks is an absurdly slow pace. The current hypothesis is that human-slow healing freaks Derek out. Which, to be fair, getting hurt freaks Stiles out. 

He tries to guess when Derek is going to add another finger. In this position, he can’t see anything, so he has to rely on his other senses, touch and sound, to try and figure out what’s going on. The thought crosses his mind that if removing his sight makes him lean on his hearing, do werewolves see less when listening? 

He’s drawn out of his thoughts by the stretch of Derek’s fingers in his ass. He shouldn't let his mind drift. It’s not polite, not when Derek is giving him his full attention. Plus, he’s lost track of how many fingers. Three, maybe? Must be three, because four is where he has to remind himself to relax. Speaking of which… He takes a moment to consciously draw the air into his lungs and then let it out again. Yep, still breathing. 

Derek is good. The stretch and burn fall just short of pain, maximum sensation with minimum discomfort. The fourth finger edges it closer to too much and Stiles’ thoughts scatter as he focuses on staying relaxed. Breath in. Breath out. Derek’s free hand rubs at the muscles on the small of his back, encouraging him to relax and simply take what is offered.

A crook of Derek’s fingers has him going cross-eyed and makes him shiver. He groans, getting a mouth full of cotton sheet, and he doesn’t care. Seriously, no caring on his part that his tongue is covered in fuzz. 

Four fingers in and now a thumb rubbing at edge of his hole. It makes his breath hitch for a moment in his throat. A little hiccup, that’s all. Derek still notices. “Stiles…”

Stiles flops one hand against the bed, trying to signal that he’s fine. Because he can’t say “If you stop, I will rip your throat out. With my teeth.” Stiles admits his sense of humor is as weird as the rest of him. But the flopping works, because the thumb, cool with freshly applied lube, works its way inside him.

And Stiles.

Is. 

Gone.

Derek’s wrists are big enough that even with the relief from the width of his hand, there’s still a wonderful stretching feeling. It feels like the greatest workout of his life, all centered on his ass. The flood of happy chemicals in his blood stream is amazing. And then Derek rocks his fist to press against his prostate and, too soon, he tips over the edge into orgasm.

It shakes him apart, rattles his brains and his bones. He must lose time, because when he comes back to himself, Derek is carefully rolling him over onto his back. “Stiles, you okay?”

“Ub.”

“That’s not a word. Seriously, you with me?”

“Mmmm. Sooooo good. Nice good.” His brain is coming back online, but it’s a slow process.

Derek pets at him, a hand on his head, down the side of his neck and across his chest. “I’ll be right back.”

“Noooo.” Stiles would make grabby hands, but the rest of his body is not working. It goes, in order, mouth, brain, rest of him. 

“I’m just going to clean up.”

Stiles lets himself drift in the moment. It’s what makes all the work worthwhile. He’s just floating on a sea of happy brain chemicals. And then Derek is there, lifting one leg to wipe his thighs clean with a warm washcloth.

“Stay?”

“Your dad--”

He’s recovered enough to give a shake of his head. “Not home for hours. He’s working a double. Stay.”

Stiles drifts to sleep beneath a heavy, warm blanket of Derek. Maybe he’s weird. Maybe they both are. It’s awesome.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to see random odds and ends from me? terrie01.tumblr.com


End file.
